


Twisted Angel

by Bloodsong



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: BDSM, D/s, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I have this thing where I'm obsessed with Malcolm Merlyn, M/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:43:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodsong/pseuds/Bloodsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a man riddled with guilt, what's one more sin?  Malcolm ends up in a sordid affair with his best friend's son.  Lust, need, obsession, and addiction become tangled up into a travesty of love.  There's only one way this can end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Return

**Author's Note:**

> _Warnings:_  
>  language, violence, references to D/s and BDSM, teen/adult sex, major character death
> 
>  
> 
> _Author's Notes:_
> 
>  
> 
> This is a horrible story, I will warn you right now. Not horrible as in badly-written (I hope), but just horrible in what happens over the events of the story.
> 
> This is not a love story. This is a story about want, need, desperation, and addiction twisted into an ugly travesty of love. This is a story about guilt.

_"Oliver Queen is alive."_

Malcolm hit the mute again as he replayed the clip for the hundredth time. He looked away from the screen when it showed Robert's stock image, smiling blankly from the past, those dead eyes accusing. The only footage they had of Oliver was that infamous drunken run-in with the paparazzi. Malcolm watched it over again, wincing inwardly at the brash young man, always so cocky and self-assured. Why weren't there any pictures of him now, after his rescue? It wasn't like the press vultures not to swarm on the victim of the hour. There was just one snapshot, a grainy portrait in the lower corner of the screen.

Malcolm hit the repeat and reached for his glass of ice water. His hand froze as the hair on his neck prickled. Someone was in his house. He stood quickly and turned, a faint snarl on his face. Whoever they were, they wouldn't live to regret this invasion. He stopped short when he saw the figure in the doorway. How the hell did he get this far past the security, without Malcolm sensing him?

The figure stepped into the room, and Malcolm's jaw went slack. "Oliver?"

And why had he come? To confront him? To kill him? Malcolm had pressured Moira to find out what Robert had told Oliver, so hard that she'd had her own son kidnapped and interrogated about it. The sinking of a yacht wasn't a clean and decisive weapon. If Oliver had survived, so could others. If not the whole five years, then an hour, a week, long enough to explain to Oliver everything about Robert and Malcolm's project, about the Undertaking. About their quarrel.

Malcolm's eyes darted to Oliver's hands, clenched in tight fists, but empty of weapons. He looked over the drape of the young man's sport jacket; no telltale bulges of holstered guns. His mind calculated Oliver's height, his strength and speed; he'd certainly filled out while he'd been gone; his shoulders were broader, straighter. He moved with a certain stiffness, not awkwardness, but tension, as he took a slow step forward, then another.

Lastly, he saw Oliver's face. No longer the smooth boyish face that easily smiled; it was bristled, angular, his hair shorn down close to the scalp. The face of a hardened man. Then he took another step closer, further into the lamp light, and Malcolm saw his eyes. Cold. Shadowed. Closed off. But as he watched, frozen in place, unable to speak, he saw a change come over those eyes. The thick layers of defense fell away, like the crumbling slopes of a glacier, exposing the vulnerability, the raw pain.

Malcolm responded subconsciously, relaxing his stance, letting his arms fall away from a defensive position. A moment later, Oliver closed the distance between them. He clung to Malcolm, his arms snaked around his waist, his face buried in the crook of Malcolm's shoulder. Malcolm wrapped his arms around Oliver, held him tight.

"He's gone," Oliver choked out. His body trembled, strained to hold back his emotion.

"I know," Malcolm said softly, old pain renewed within him. "Oliver, I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault."

Shameful relief flooded Malcolm at this deflective reassurance. He didn't know. Thank God, but Oliver didn't know about the _Queen's Gambit_ , the Undertaking, any of it. Malcolm cupped the back of Oliver's head. It felt so different from the soft, angelic hair he remembered. Prickly. Defensive. He stroked Oliver's neck, tightened his grip across the young man's shoulders. He tried to lend his strength, his support, silently pledging his spirit, anything he could give to help Oliver heal.

A stronger tremor passed through the young man's body. "Please," he grated. "Take me upstairs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This all happened when I looked for Malcolm/Oliver slash, and found... none*. Come on, there's Quentin/Vigilante slash! So much so, that there's even one of those goofy blended name words for it. How difficult could this be? So I tried to think how it would work. And the answer is... it wouldn't. Until I said, "What if they became lovers before the island?" Then it was as if the tumblers on a safe all clicked into place, the safe opened up, and this misbegotten thing plopped out.
> 
> Why do I share it? To get it out of my head. Sometimes a little horribleness is good for the soul.
> 
>  
> 
> ((*)okay, now i found three. good job, guys.)


	2. Tainted Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How it all began... and how it should have ended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter, and the only chapter, with explicit sex.

It had started when Oliver was 17. It wasn't something Malcolm was proud of. Just another sin that he'd learned to ignore so he could bear to go on living. It had been a bad week in Starling City. A young woman had been raped by a gang of men. They'd shot her fiance in the back of the head, but she had survived. Malcolm was sickened, both by the atrocity and by the horrible gladness he felt that Rebecca had only been killed. Only. As if that were a comfort.

He followed the story nearly two days. Then, on the 11 O'Clock News, there had been an update. After hours of surgery, after close watch in intensive care, she had died. Now the police would never find out who had done it. It was just some random gang violence, perpetrated on random victims, down in the Glades. The bastards. How could anyone condone this? How could anyone preach tolerance and mercy and reform while staring into the face of this evil? These people in these gangs, they weren't even human! Human beings had compassion and caring. These hideous, soulless things, they needed to be put down.

No one listened. It would just go on.

He'd finished off the sauvignon in his room, and it hadn't made a dent in his mood. God, how he missed the balancing presence of his wife. He couldn't sleep, so he wandered downstairs in the middle of the night to raid the drink cabinet.

Only it was already open when he got there. He frowned. If Tommy had swiped the good port, again...! He turned around and was startled to see someone sitting on the couch. "Tommy?" But no, the lamp behind the couch illuminated a halo of pale hair. "Oliver? What are you doing here?" He suddenly felt self-conscious and tightened the robe he'd thrown on over his shorts. "Was there some wild party I somehow failed to notice?"

Oliver hadn't bothered with even a robe. He sat on the couch in his red and black boxers, one leg tucked under him. "No. Not tonight. We were just hanging out." His words were slurred, his eyes bleary. Great, did Robert know his son was over here getting drunk?

Malcolm sighed. "Don't you know you're not supposed to be drinking?"

"Yup."

That usually worked on Tommy. Oliver, however, seemed to have no shame.

Before Malcolm could form a response or a new tactic, the teen asked him, "Can I talk to you about something?" He seemed subdued, not just drunk. He leaned forward to the coffee table and lifted the pilfered liquor. "I'm pouring."

Malcolm sighed again, grabbed a glass, and went over to the couch. "All right. What's wrong?"

Oliver poured him three fifths, and Malcolm took a bracing drink. Oliver left his glass on the tray, though he looked at it longingly. "I think...," he started. He chewed his lip, frowning. "I'm afraid...." He shook his head, not happy with that sentence either. "I've been wondering," he blurted out, "if I'm gay."

Malcolm blinked several times. He hadn't been expecting that. What do you say to that? Wasn't Oliver the one with a new girlfriend every three days? Oh. Oh dear. "Are... are you in love with Tommy?"

"What? No." Oliver shook his head. "It's not Tommy. He's my best friend. But not like that." He reached forward and poured himself another drink.

"What makes you think you might be gay?" Malcolm held out his glass when Oliver offered the bottle.

"I do like girls," he explained. "I really like the sex. It's just that... I feel like I'm missing something. I keep having these fantasies...." He looked up at Malcolm. Words seemed to desert him. He licked his lips nervously and took a quick gulp of his drink.

"Well, Oliver, I don't want to belittle it and call it a phase, but there is a 'phase' of curiosity. It doesn't mean you're gay. Every young man goes through this."

"Tommy definitely isn't 'curious,'" Oliver said dejectedly, and Malcolm briefly worried what _that_ meant. "None of the other guys I know, either. That I can tell."

"It's not like guys talk about that."

"Did you ever experiment?"

Malcolm took a long, slow drink, wondering how he could deflect that one. But Oliver was looking at him so intently, his blue eyes looking so lost. Malcolm had agreed to talk to the young man, and frankly, the last time he'd been able to have such an open and meaningful conversation with his own son had probably been when Tommy was five.

So he swallowed and said, "There was... a time." He looked into his glass as he spoke. It made it easier. "I was in college. My roommate and I got drunk one night. Um, things happened. Not... I mean, we weren't close. I mean, we were friends, but, it was just... we were there...."

"You were horny?" Oliver shifted on the couch so he was facing Malcolm more squarely. His knee bumped Malcolm's leg.

Malcolm grimaced in embarrassment and fortified himself with another drink. "Yeah. It was late, there were no women, we were drunk and... what the hell, you know?"

"So... did you like it?"

"No. I... didn't care for it." He emptied his glass and Oliver leaned forward, stretching to reach the bottle. He poured Malcolm another refill.

"We should go easy on this," Malcolm mentioned.

Oliver nodded and replaced the decanter on the tray. "So what did you do?"

"Hm?"

"With your friend. I mean, you know... oral or... did you pitch or catch, or what?"

Malcolm felt his face go hot. "Um, Oliver... I'm not really comfortable talking about that."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Oliver looked down at his drink, his thoughts clouded behind his eyes. Finally, he set it aside. "You won't tell my parents about all this, will you? I mean.... Dad would freak. No, Mom would freak. Dad would disown me."

"I don't think that's true."

"Would you kick Tommy out, if he was gay?"

"No." Malcolm frowned, realizing how uncomfortable that thought actually made him. "I would... be concerned. About how difficult it could make his life." But could he support Tommy's life choices if they might reflect badly on the company?

"I don't think Dad is that forward-thinking," Oliver said glumly.

Malcolm didn't remember many of the details of the rest of that conversation. He recalled Oliver's worries, his concern about his life's future, his relationship with his family. It seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to put a comforting arm around the shoulders of a boy he'd known since he was a toddler. And the way Oliver leaned against him, one hand on Malcolm's stomach, that was just because of the way they were sitting.

Then... somehow the bottle ended up propped between Malcolm's legs instead of on the tray. He and Oliver shared from Malcolm's glass. Oliver started wondering about experimentation again, if it would settle the question of his sexuality once and for all. If only he could hire a rentboy, he'd said. Or even trot himself out on a street corner one night.

No, Malcolm had told him emphatically. He knew a bit about the male prostitutes. It was another sin that he bore, a necessary evil. It had been nearly ten years now since he'd lost his wife, and he hadn't been with a woman since. He'd tried dating again, twice. It hadn't gone very well. His guilt over Rebecca's death weighed too heavily on him. And he wouldn't sully her memory by being unfaithful to her with other women. He could only get so far by himself, and porn didn't really help. It was all so unfeeling, so objectifying and denigrating of the women. Burying himself in his work, keeping grueling hours, could only distract him for so long.

Then one night his limo was stopped at a red light on south Broadway, and he noticed a BMW pulling over to the curb. One of the young men standing on the corner had gotten in. So simple. It fulfilled a basic physical need, but Malcolm tried not to rely on it too much. It was dangerous. If any of them recognized him; if, God forbid, they got any security footage of him with one of these whores, they could sell him out to the tabloids. Merlyn Global could crumble. Or they'd blackmail him. Sometimes he thought of hiring one on. Who wouldn't want to get off the street? He could install him as the groundskeeper here, pay for his upkeep, have him on call. God. How tawdry that would be.

No, if one were going to engage in sin, one should be discrete about it, and keep it as far away as possible from one's day-to-day living. Malcolm only turned to that alternative when he was at the frayed end of his rope, when nothing could slake his needs but a warm body.

The next thing he knew, Oliver was pressed against him, his hand had slipped inside Malcolm's robe, and it was so hot where it touched his bare skin. So was Oliver's mouth, on his own, hungry and demanding. His reflexes must have been shot, because his hands were on Oliver's shoulders, and his mouth was kissing him back, before he realized it.

"We shouldn't do this," Malcolm said, in a breathless pause.

"Why not?" Oliver bent to kiss the side of his neck.

"Can't you feel how wrong this is?" God, Robert would kill him.

"No." Impish, Oliver licked the pulse point below his ear, and a shiver went through Malcolm's body. "I need you." He palmed Malcolm's traitorous erection through the robe and the boxers. "You need me. We shouldn't have to go into the streets and pick up strangers, when we have all we need, right here." Oh God, how much had Malcolm let slip about the prostitutes? Oliver was kissing and licking his neck again, a sensation he hadn't known in years.

It was all Malcolm could do to summon the last of his unraveling self-control and push him back. Oliver looked up, his pupils dilated, his lips parted, panting slightly, his expression pleading. "Not here," Malcolm told him.

 

 

It shouldn't have happened.

That's what Malcolm said after it was all over.

While it was going on, however, it all seemed so reasonable. Malcolm took him upstairs, away from Tommy's room, down the wing past the master bedroom, to an unused guest room. After... how much had they drunk? he used the bathroom, and found an old jar of petroleum jelly in the medicine cabinet. He didn't look at his reflection in the mirror when he closed it.

Oliver was waiting for him. He started eagerly kissing and working to divest Malcolm of his robe as soon as he came out. Malcolm pushed him back a bit. "I only ever top," he warned him.

Oliver nodded. "That's what I want." He went back to work on the robe. "You must really work out," he commented appreciatively. Then he backed away as the robe dropped to the floor, his mouth open slightly. His eyes widened. "What are those scars?"

Malcolm grimaced to himself, having forgotten about the scars he'd earned from his training. "Nothing," he said, looking away. "They're from a long time ago."

With his head turned, he didn't see Oliver's hand. The palm came to rest gently on his right pectoral, the fingertips fanned over one of the scars. Oliver stroked him gently, saying nothing. Then he brought his hand down under Malcolm's elbow, drawing him towards the bed.

Oliver pulled down the covers while Malcolm fished in the drawer for his unmarked stash he kept on hand for his 'excursions.' He handed Oliver one of the packets. "What's this for?" the teen asked.

Malcolm sighed in mock exasperation. "I'd hope you know what a condom is for."

"Well, yeah, but... we're not going to get pregnant."

Malcolm deflected the slight complication of his less-than-reliable partners. He'd used condoms with them, and he'd use one with Oliver; it was safe. "It's easier to clean up," he said. "And I have a really gossipy housecleaner."

Oliver shrugged, put the packet between his teeth with a leer, and stripped his shorts off. He climbed into the bed, and Malcolm followed, a little less flamboyantly. Oliver reached for him, and he was grateful the teen seemed to know what he wanted. Because, frankly, Malcolm was wholly unprepared for this situation.

The prostitutes he used were professionals, and certainly not virgins. They took care of all the preparation, and the cleanup. And he didn't really give a thought to their comfort; they were there to do a job, that's all. He made their job expedient by finishing his business quickly and leaving, so they could get on to another client. He never connected with them. Not like this, like he was doing now with Oliver. Kissing him. Touching him. Caring about what the boy felt, what his experience would be like. Worrying about hurting him.

They lay face to face, and took their time exploring each other's bodies. Oliver's skin was soft and smooth, taut with youth. He felt incredibly good. And his hands were warm, roaming in curiosity the planes and angles of a man's body. His mouth was hot, and he liked to kiss aggressively. Malcolm opened his mouth on Oliver's, letting him explore with his tongue, teasing him with light touches of his own. It had been so long since he'd done this.

His swelling cock pressed against Oliver's thigh. The youth tugged Malcolm over on top of him, rolling to his back. Malcolm straddled him and pressed down with his hips. He rubbed his cock slowly against Oliver's shaft, until it, too came erect. Oliver moaned in quiet appreciation. And then a bit louder when Malcolm moved to kiss and then suck at his nipple. That was a trick the teen girls probably didn't know.

"Oh, yes," Oliver breathed. He moved under Malcolm, thrusting his hips up so their cocks could grind together.

Malcolm tried to bite back a moan of his own. Oliver pushed at him, so he rose up on his arms. Twisting a little more -- probably a little more than entirely necessary -- Oliver recovered his packet. With another impish leer, he tore it open with his teeth and drew the condom down over Malcolm's shaft. Malcolm swallowed audibly as Oliver made sure to smooth it down tight. He found the other one and applied it to himself.

"What do I do now?" Oliver asked a little breathlessly. "Do I have to roll over? Get on my knees?"

Malcolm shook his head. He moved aside, slid one hand under Oliver's thigh to lift his leg, caught him behind the knee. He maneuvered to kneel between Oliver's legs, brought them both up until they were folded and spread. He leaned forward to prop them open with his torso. He'd never done it this way, but he wasn't ignorant of the principles. This should help keep him opened up so he could be penetrated without tearing him.

He leaned over the boy below him, his weight resting on his arms once more. "Do you trust me?"

There was no fear in those blue eyes. "I trust you."

"You have to be honest with me, so I don't hurt you." Malcolm reached for the jar of lubricant. "Have you ever touched yourself, there?"

Oliver nodded slowly. "Yes. In the bath."

He pushed two slicked fingers along Oliver's crease, sliding down to the nub of his opening. The tip of his middle finger touched the center, and he began rubbing in small circles. Oliver's head tipped back as he moaned; his eyes half closed. Malcolm kept stroking him, sometimes around the rim, sometimes across. Clearly, Oliver loved this. His cock seemed to swell a bit more in its sheath.

"Did you ever touch inside?"

"Once."

Malcolm dipped his middle finger in the jar, then returned to his ministrations. "Easy, now. Relax," he murmured in encouragement. "Breathe." He pressed in, firmly.

Oliver's inhalation turned into a gasp; his head came up and his eyes flew wide. Malcolm could actually watch as his pupils expanded. "Ohh...," he groaned. He slowly lay back. "Oh, God, keep doing that," he said as Malcolm started stroking him inside.

The older man obliged, pushing slightly deeper, slightly harder. He turned his finger, gently tugging to stretch Oliver open, bit by bit. He was so tight. His eyes were closed again, his hands on Malcolm's shoulders, rubbing over the deltoids. He quivered in delight, which was infectious. Malcolm's cock throbbed in time with his stroking. He wanted this boy so badly.

He withdrew his finger, and Oliver's body drooped with the release of tension. He was panting, his moist lips parted, his eyes half closed again. "Oliver? Oliver, look at me." Malcolm brushed his left hand over the boy's forehead, moving his hair out of his face. Oliver blinked sleepily and opened his eyes. "Are you sure you want... more?" Oliver nodded. "You tell me the instant you feel uncomfortable, or you need me to stop. You hear me?"

"Yes."

Malcolm used an extra dollop of lubricant to thoroughly coat his shaft before leaning over and pressing it to Oliver's opening. "Breathe," he reminded the boy. He pushed. Oliver made a strangled sound in his throat. "All right?" At Oliver's nod, Malcolm pushed again, sliding a few inches deeper. Oliver tensed, and grabbed at him, digging his fingernails into Malcolm's shoulders.

"More...!" He clawed furrows into Malcolm's skin as he penetrated further. Cords stood out on Oliver's neck and the strangled noise turned into a cry. Malcolm could see he was hurting Oliver, and he tried to pull back, but somehow Oliver had locked his legs around his waist and wouldn't let him. "Don't stop! Give it to me... I need it!"

Trapped, and losing self control over his own lust, Malcolm thrust again. Oliver's cry was a little less pained, and he loosened his grip a little. Malcolm rocked his hips back, then forward again, nice and easy. He kept it up, and Oliver seemed to settle a bit more. His ragged breathing settled into a rhythmic panting. He stopped clawing at Malcolm and rubbed his back.

Malcolm half closed his eyes and let the physical pleasure wash over him, his breath keeping time with Oliver's. He felt heat building within him, something he hadn't felt in years, not with the mechanical, perfunctory sex he'd been having. It was different, with a partner who desired you as much as you desired him.

He didn't know how to pleasure a young man from this position; the angle was too awkward. He shifted his hips, letting his attunement to his partner's body and the soft noises guide him to bring them both more pleasure. Oliver tugged at the back of his neck, and he bent low to kiss him. They couldn't hold it for long, needing oxygen for their exertion. "Mmm," said Oliver, his breath warming Malcolm's lips, "You're so strong."

Malcolm licked his neck, that long hair tickling his face. "You're like an angel."

Oliver's body vibrated with a laugh. "I didn't think anyone who knew me would ever call me that."

"Still, it's true." An angel of light to lead him out of the darkness. Malcolm started nibbling him playfully. It made Oliver writhe, and that made Malcolm ride him harder.

Oliver arched his back, another strangled cry escaping his throat as he went into orgasm. His hips shuddered and jerked with involuntary thrusts. And his ring of muscle tightened around Malcolm's cock.

Fire filled his loins. This was so much different than making sweet love to his wife.

The memory of Rebecca suddenly flooded him with guilt and shame. He stopped.

"What's wrong?" Oliver lifted his head.

"We shouldn't have done this." Malcolm pulled out, trying not to hurt Oliver, but desperate to just get away.

"What? What do you mean?"

He wasn't listening. He fled as if a ghost were chasing him.


	3. Pandora's Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hidden things, brought to light, can never been un-seen. Even things we hide from ourselves.

Malcolm had tried to push the incident out of his mind. It was a one-time thing. It was over. Oliver had gotten what he wanted, hadn't he? He could go find a lover, now. Or whatever. Someone his own age. Malcolm had to stop thinking about him and his golden hair, his soft skin. Obsessing. It was disgusting. Pitiful. His best friend's son, for God's sake. It sounded like some cheesy porn movie plot.

Why wouldn't his mind listen to reason? _Oliver doesn't want you. It was a freak happenstance. He doesn't want a man old enough to be his father._ He tried flogging it out with shame. _What if it got out?_ Statutory rape: the press would go wild, crucifying him as some child-molesting rapist, all the more perverted because he preyed on a boy. He pictured Robert and Moira's faces when they found out. When they looked at him -- the scorn, the horror, the disgust. The hatred. And Tommy, what would it do to him? Plus the biggest rope in his flogger: _What would Rebecca think?_

Nothing worked. The vision of that angel kept haunting his every idle moment. He felt as if he'd been encased in ice all these years, and Oliver had been the flame that had melted it all away. Now that he was no longer cold and numb, now that he could feel again, he craved touch. He needed human contact.

He just couldn't afford it.

He almost managed to learn to live with it. Until one day he came home to find a bunch of drunken teenagers in his house. Furious, he chased them out, yelling dire threats. One of them caught his eye, one not moving as the milling panic flowed around him.

Oliver.

Malcolm turned his eyes away. He didn't want to see Oliver. He didn't want to see the look Oliver was giving him from across the room.

The flood trickled out and Malcolm looked up. They were all gone, and so was Oliver. Tommy remained, but he was Malcolm's problem. "What were you thinking?" he thundered at his son.

"Uh...," was all that Tommy could manage, blearily.

"Never mind! Just go to your room!"

"But... it's barely 7."

"I don't want to see you again until you're sober," Malcolm snarled. He'd need a chance to cool down, before he bit Tommy's head off. Tommy grumbled and slouched off upstairs.

Agitated, Malcolm paced around the room, noting any damage, righting any tilted or fallen decorations. He checked the other rooms as well, for any stragglers, or cigarettes left burning, or drug stashes dropped in haste. Lastly, he went from the back door to the front, securing the locks on all the windows.

He found Oliver in the foyer. "What are you doing here?"

"Can I talk to you?" His voice was quiet, his expression vulnerable. His cocky arrogant mask was gone again.

Malcolm was almost tempted. But, "No, Oliver," he said sharply. "Go home." He stepped forward to close the door after the young man, but Oliver didn't move. Malcolm ended up closer to him. He frowned, but didn't back off. "What do you want?"

"I want you," Oliver said quietly. He ducked his head as if ashamed, but his eyes stayed on Malcolm.

"That's not possible," Malcolm said tightly. "You're drunk. Again. Go home."

"My mother is unhappy."

Malcolm blinked in confusion. "What does th--?"

"Dad's in Sacramento again. He thinks Mom doesn't know. Mom thinks I don't know, but I can tell how she feels."

Malcolm tightened his jaw. Damn Robert. What was wrong with him?

Oliver went on, a little hesitantly. He fought to keep his eyes on Malcolm, but his gaze kept dropping. "You're not like him. After all these years... you've never even looked at another woman. I... I admire that, about you."

Malcolm sighed and looked away, self-consciously. That's when Oliver moved. Once more, he caught Malcolm off-guard, had his lips pressed to his mouth before he knew what was happening.

Angry, Malcolm seized a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back. "What do you think you're doing?" Oliver didn't fight him; he only shifted closer, his pupils expanding. The hardness behind the fly of his jeans pressed against Malcolm's hip. "What is wrong with you?" He released Oliver, pushed him away.

"My father spanked me once."

With a huff of disgust, Malcolm turned away.

"Wait, don't go! Listen, please." Oliver grabbed his arm. Malcolm twisted it out of his grip, but forbore breaking his wrist. "You need to understand this."

"What?" Malcolm asked, grudgingly.

Oliver swallowed. "I was four, or five. I was playing at our cookout, trying to draw stuff with the lighter fluid and set it on fire. Dad was furious. Not just angry, but frightened." He licked his lips and moved closer, his eyes pleading for understanding. "I was scared. It was like the Wrath of God. He spanked me. I... It hurt, of course, but I could tell he did it because he cared about me. And I felt... I don't know; I can't describe it. It was the first time I, uh...." He looked away uncomfortably. "You know. I got hard. It didn't mean anything -- I was only four. I didn't understand it. And Dad.... Dad, he just freaked. And... and he never disciplined me again," he finished, regret and sadness in his voice.

Malcolm took a breath. "So what are you saying? You...?"

"I've seen how you are with Tommy. Tommy thinks you're too hard on him, but I just wish...." He sighed in frustration. He looked up again, regaining his self confidence. "I think that's what I'm missing," he said. "From having sex with girls. Even the tough chicks, they just don't.... They can't give me what I need. I need you," he insisted.

"Oliver... I'm not... into that." He frowned. "Is this because I hurt you when we... the first time?" When had the only time become just the first time?

"You didn't hurt me." He must have looked unconvinced, because Oliver sighed and recanted. "Okay, yes, it hurt at first, but I liked it. Please, there's no one else I can trust to do this."

Malcolm shook his head. "I can't... hurt you on purpose. I can't spank you." He wondered when this had even become a discussion about them having another encounter. Oliver crowded him; he couldn't back up any further without hitting the hall table. Oliver's hand slipped between his legs and cupped him. "Stop that," he hissed, his protest lacking power because he dared not raise his voice. What if Tommy heard something and came to see what the hell was going on?

"I'll do anything you want," Oliver said, slowly slinking to his knees. His cheek rested against Malcolm's thigh. Shakily, his hands plucked at the zipper.

Malcolm knew where this was going, but he was unable to stop it. It was as if he were trapped outside his body, watching helplessly. Then Olive had his mouth on him, his lips closing over the head of his shaft, that wet, slippery tongue stroking.... Malcolm's vision began to dissolve into an incandescent haze, and he made one last, desperate attempt to pull himself away from the brink.

_What would Rebecca think?_

He pushed Oliver away. "Stop that. Get up." He panted for breath.

"Don't you like that?" Oliver remained on his knees, Malcolm's hands still resting on his shoulders. He was afraid to try to answer. "I'll do anything you want," Oliver promised. He twined his left arm around Malcolm's leg, slid his hand up along the inside of his thigh. "Anything, if you'll just put your fist in my hair again, bend me over and hold me down." His eyes, dark with desire, pleaded.

Malcolm struggled to retain a shred of self control. "If... I do, you'll stop this madness? This will be the last time?"

"Anything you want. Anything." His hand rode up higher.

Malcolm closed his eyes.

_What would Rebecca think?_

He took a breath and opened them again.

_She'll forgive me._

"Go upstairs." He released Oliver. "And if Tommy sees you, you snuck in to visit him, and I'm going to kick you out." The boy left, and Malcolm took a few moments to shakily straighten his clothing. He didn't know whether to hope Tommy did notice and put an end to this, or pray that he never found out. He moved stiffly to the front door to lock it, then turned to go upstairs.

 

 

There were dozens of reasons Malcolm shouldn't be doing this. He found dozens of rationalizations to counter them. It was safer, for all concerned. Oliver couldn't just go to any S&M club -- hell, he wasn't even old enough for those places. If he asked someone to tie him up, they might just kidnap him for real, knowing how rich his family was. And who among his friends could be trusted to do things safely? They were all young, irresponsible....

As for him, he removed his potential exposure to blackmailers and STDs. He was watching out for his friend's son. He was teaching Oliver responsible sexual practices. And for once, he began to understand this young man that little Ollie had turned into. He wasn't the brash, devil-may-care rich boy, who was always getting himself (and Tommy) into trouble. That was just a facade, a mask to hide his insecurity and lack of confidence.

But the naked truth was, their relationship came down to one simple thing: need.

Malcolm thought he could deny it; deny himself as he had for so many years, but there was one thing he didn't count on. When he bent Oliver over and held his head down as they fucked, he felt something else, too. It was like opening Pandora's Box, or tasting the Forbidden Fruit. What was unleashed, what was discovered, could never be locked away again.

Surely a man like Malcolm Merlyn knew power. He ran a multi-national corporation, after all. But that was such a behemoth, it practically ran itself. It was like a cruise ship, where one steered by pressing buttons in the control room, rather than a sailboat where one controlled the rudder directly. His employees obeyed him, his household servants, too. He pulled the strings behind the scenes of the local police department, the local courts, the local political offices.

Yet, there was only one person who would obey him implicitly, even when commanded to kneel and submit. One who trusted him with his body, even as Malcolm trusted him with his secrets.

Oliver would come to him with all the transgressions of youth -- stolen candy, lies to his parents, cheating, shoplifting, bullying kids at school who were lower on the totem pole than he was, and the lies, endless lies to get girls into his car, into his room, into his bed. And then more lies to get them to leave, so he could move on to his next conquest.

Oliver had a deep-seated need to be punished for all the sins his father let slip. He also liked to be restrained, so he could thrash freely under Malcolm. He liked to feel weight pressing on his back, pinning him down.

Malcolm found he had a taste for subduing him. Not so much for the actual disciplining, which he did mainly for Oliver's benefit, but for the physical exertion. It made the tactile sensations, the sex, more intense. It was like taming a horse, or landing a marlin, or conquering an enemy. And when Oliver surrendered to him, he felt the warm glow of accomplishment, a pure outpouring of joy.

It was a release for both of them.


	4. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm does what he thinks is best. He doesn't realize the long-term repercussions this will have.

It had been a liaison like so many others before. Malcolm lay cradling Oliver against him, slowly stroking the glassy-eyed young man until he drifted back from wherever the endorphins had taken him. The smooth, warm skin under Malcolm's palm soothed him as he rested in his own meditative state of quiet euphoria.

He felt more balanced this past year than he had in a long time. Grounded. His business was prospering even in the chancy economy, and where his other endeavors had grown to disappoint him, he had developed ideas to revitalize them.

His hand roamed the planes and subtle curves of Oliver's chest and stomach. He, too, seemed more settled. He was still an infamous playboy, but there seemed to be one young woman in particular that had finally caught and held his interest.

Oliver blinked sleepily and stirred. "What time is it?"

"Late," Malcolm replied, but he didn't remove his arm from around his lover. Tommy had moved out of the house the instant he'd turned 18. Then Malcolm had cut back on his serving staff; he no longer had full time help. The empty mansion made a lot of things easier, especially illicit trysts. Still, he didn't encourage overnight guests. He and Oliver had needs, and they came together once in a while to meet them, nothing more. One had to keep up proprieties.

Oliver clasped his hand over Malcolm's, stroked his thumb over the knuckles. Malcolm nuzzled his neck. "You all right?" he murmured. Oliver liked to push the envelope, and Malcolm worried that one day he'd lose control and go too far.

"Mmm, fantastic," the imperturbable youth said with a lazy smile. He twisted in Malcolm's embrace, and they kissed, lingeringly. Oliver put a palm to Malcolm's chest, stroked him a moment before gently pushing away. "But I gotta go."

He slithered out of Malcolm's arms. Malcolm grabbed a pillow and folded it up between his arms to rest his head so he could watch his angel get dressed. Oliver rolled out of bed and stretched his cramped limbs with a grunt. Malcolm frowned at the stripes marring his sleek round ass. "I left a mark."

"Several," Oliver said as he bent to retrieve his shirt. He looked over his shoulder, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. "I can still feel it."

"What if someone sees?"

"Like who?"

"What if your mother walks in?"

Oliver laughed. "My mother does _not_ walk in on me, unannounced, while I'm in the shower."

"What if your girlfriend notices?"

Oliver scooped his boxers off the floor and slipped them on, careful to keep the waistband high above the welts. "I'll tell her I'm into the rough stuff." He came back to the bed and ran his hand down through Malcolm's hair. "And if she doesn't run away, maybe I've found my true love." He bent and kissed the juncture of Malcolm's neck and shoulder. "You worry too much."

 

 

 

Malcolm did worry too much. That was the purview of the more mature partner, wasn't it? The more he thought about his relationship with Oliver, the more one brutal truth became clear. 

Things could not go on.

When bereft of his wife, Malcolm sought release once in a great while. It wasn't safe, it wasn't convenient, and it was only the last resort of desperation. Oliver made it safe, quite convenient, and... addicting. Over the two years they'd been seeing each other, their visits became more and more frequent. It became a once-a-week thing, and last month there'd been two weeks where Oliver had come over more often.

It had to stop.

Not one for prolonging things, he told Oliver at their next tryst, while they were getting undressed, that this would be the last time. This did not go down well.

"What do you mean, the last time?" Oliver demanded.

"I mean this is the end, Oliver. We can't keep doing this. It's time to move on." Malcolm had plans. Things to set in motion. He couldn't be distracted.

"You can't just... cut me off!"

"Really, I think this is for the best."

"Please, I need more. I can't just quit now!"

Malcolm sighed in frustration. Perhaps last time would be their last time. "Oliver, don't beg. It's time for you to be mature about this."

"But I love you."

Malcolm just stared at him after he blurted that out.

Oliver slumped. "I know you don't feel the same way about me. Yes, I _know_ ; it can't work out; it can never work out. But... God, Malcolm, it's just a few more months until I have to leave for college. I can get out of town, I can find someone else. I can... we can stop then...."

"Jesus, Oliver!"

"I-I'm sorry. I was never going to tell you." His face creased as he tried to curb his emotion. "I.... Fuck, you're going to freak out now, right? I knew you'd freak out." He mastered his pain by turning it into anger. "After all this, everything we've been through.... You mean so much to me, but I'm just your convenient fuck-toy!"

"That's not true!"

Those blue eyes latched onto him, daring him to go on, to say something else. To admit it.

"I care about you, Oliver. I do. I always have, one way or another, and I always will." Malcolm paced. "But you know this is wrong. You knew that since we started."

"But you kept doing it."

"Yes. I was weak." He sighed. "I'm sorry. I should have been stronger. God, Oliver, I didn't know. If I had known--"

"You'd have broken my heart that much sooner."

 

 

Last time was their last time. Oliver went off to college. Well, colleges. He managed to drop out of several ivy league schools. In his quest for what he needed, Oliver seemed to eschew his own age group to go after his professors. Malcolm didn't envy them; Oliver could be quite insistent with what he wanted. 

After exhausting those options, Oliver was back at Starling U, living with his parents. Malcolm dreaded the phone call. So he was doubly surprised to find Oliver at his door one dreary rainy night. He managed to look thoroughly wet and miserable. Malcolm, however, was not moved by his emo dramatics. "Tommy has his own place now," he said perfunctorily. He swung the door closed, but Oliver barged in.

"I don't want to see Tommy; I want to see you."

"Dammit, Oliver...."

"Let me stay tonight."

Malcolm was already shaking his head.

"I'm not a kid any more! I'm a fully consenting adult!"

"Please leave my house."

"No."

Malcolm snarled and advanced on him. "I said, get out!"

Oliver just stood there. Waiting. Staring defiantly.

Malcolm was starting to get angry, and seriously considering putting him in a hammerlock or an armbar and bodily throwing him out. But then he realized that to do this, he would have to grapple Oliver, and force him to bend over. And if they got into that position, that close.... Malcolm swallowed. His anger drained away. "I can't give you what you need anymore, Oliver." He turned away and started up the stairs. "Lock the door on your way out."

"Please...." Oliver's voice drifted up behind him. "Just hold me?"

Malcolm closed his eyes. He couldn't be weak, not again. He'd done enough damage. He ignored his former lover's plea, though it cut him to the bone.

 

 

Oliver left, but he kept calling. Malcolm refused his calls, or let him ramble on voicemail. One evening, at an important charity dinner, he got a text message: _I need u. --O_ He thumbed the erase button angrily. Then he did something he swore he'd never do again.

He turned off his phone.

 

 

After two weeks, Oliver quit calling. He was young. He'd get over it. He'd find someone. Malcolm put it out of his mind. He had other matters to deal with. Dominoes to line up. In five years, he could finally put Rebecca's spirit to rest. Maybe then, he too could heal. Maybe... he'd find someone. He put Oliver out of his mind again.

Then he had to deal with Robert. He was the only one on the project who couldn't see that the Undertaking was the only solution. He refused to be convinced. He was a danger to the whole project, and so, there was only one thing that could be done to resolve this impasse. It broke Malcolm's heart, but business was business.

It was three days after the _Queen's Gambit_ had left when Moira casually mentioned at lunch that Robert had taken Oliver with him. Malcolm felt his blood turn to ice. For a panicked minute, he tried to think of some way, some excuse, some reason to call the _Gambit_ back.

But it was far too late. The bomb was on a timer. There was nothing he could do. He'd killed his angel. Guilt crashed over him like a tidal wave.

"Malcolm?" Moira asked in concern. "Are you all right?"

Guilt was something he'd learned to bear, through the years. What was one more burden? Nothing he couldn't handle. "Yes, sorry." He smiled at Moira. "I'm fine."


	5. Catharsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A return to the present, and why Oliver is there, needing Malcolm once again.

Malcolm led Oliver upstairs, like he had so many times before, so many years ago. The guest room was the same, always sitting, always waiting for guests that never visited, always empty except when two men filled it briefly with life.

He turned around, faced Oliver, not knowing what he wanted now, or what he needed. Whatever it was, Malcolm couldn't deny him. Not after what he'd done to him, the pain he'd caused, inadvertently and otherwise.

Oliver's face was a mask of stone. His blue eyes peered out from behind it. They were darker than they had been when he was a carefree youth. These eyes had seen struggle, had seen death. Malcolm held his gaze, difficult as it was.

Finally, Oliver spoke. "Is it true, you never loved me?"

He took a breath. "I've always loved you, Oliver. Just not like that."

A muscle twitched in his jaw. "You wouldn't talk to me."

"I just thought it was best to end it quickly. Not to prolong it." Malcolm lowered his eyes.

"I just wanted--!" Oliver began, but bit back at the anger in his voice. "I just wanted you to hold me, one last time; to say good-bye. That's all I wanted!"

"I'm sorry." Malcolm bit his lip. He lifted his head, looked into Oliver's eyes, so he could see how deeply he meant it. "I had to. I don't know if I could have stayed strong."

Oliver looked at him long and hard. Whatever he was thinking did not show a sign on his face. After a minute, he raised his hand, slowly, hesitantly. He stopped halfway from touching Malcolm.

Malcolm slowly stepped forward, not coming into contact with him, but showing his willingness to be there.

Still, the hand moved no further. "I need you," Oliver said. "You're the only one I can trust. Are you going to turn me away again?"

"No, Oliver. I won't."

Then the hand was on his bicep, gripping, pulling. Oliver's mouth was on his, and he flinched from the unfamiliar bristly feel. A moment later, he pushed past the reluctance and pressed forward. He opened his mouth to invite Oliver in; he put an arm around his shoulders to hold him close.

Oliver licked, tentatively, at his upper lip, but his usual aggressiveness was absent. He broke off the kiss and released Malcolm's arm. He shot a glance towards the bed, then bent to pull off his shoes. Understanding the unspoken desire, Malcolm undressed, down to his shorts, and got in the bed.

On this night, it was his turn to stare in marvel at the hard musculature of Oliver's body. His years of deprivation had stripped him of any layer of fat, carved his legs, his arms, his torso into bands of steel. That soft, angelic boy was gone. This was a man, a hard man. Malcolm felt his stomach tighten. He didn't find men attractive. He found Oliver's bulk and sheer strength intimidating.

And then there were the scars, the tattoos. Lines of pain written across the canvas of his body. No, there was no artistry there; they were ripped, burned, torn. "My God, Oliver," Malcolm breathed.

Oliver stripped down naked, turned his palms out as if presenting himself for inspection. He was not aroused.

Malcolm looked into his face. The stone facade had softened, just a bit. There was a shadow of a lonely, insecure boy there. And in his eyes, a longing for acceptance. Malcolm stretched out a hand to him.

He crossed the floor, slowly, awkwardly, as if unused to moving in this new body he'd developed. He put his hand in Malcolm's, but didn't close it, he left it loose. Malcolm gripped him gently, tugged him down into the bed. He still wasn't sure of all that Oliver wanted from him, but he trusted the young man to show him.

Oliver climbed into the bed and curled up into a ball as tight as he could, his arms around his knees, his head tucked down, every muscle standing out in stark relief. His voice, when it came out, was strangled, high-pitched like a child's. "...hold me?"

Malcolm wrapped his arms around him as best he could. Oliver was a big man, not a child. Malcolm pressed close, laying his body along Oliver's, bringing his knees up, enveloping him with as much human warmth as he could.

He could feel the tremors in Oliver's body, as if each muscle strained to tear itself apart. He was like a spring, compressed beyond its limit, struggling not to fly apart. Soft whimpers started in his throat.

Malcolm held him tightly. "I'm here," he whispered.

The tremors increased. The whimpers lengthened into keening cries, like those of a wounded animal. "He's gone," Oliver moaned. Again, Malcolm knew exactly who he was talking about, and felt the same emptiness where Robert had been. "He's gone...."

Then Oliver started talking, haltingly, his voice broken up with heavy sobs. His voice kept spiraling up and down as the emotional pain wracked him. There was something about the yacht, the storm, the girl he was with. "G-gone, and every-every-everything u-upside down, and... and... th-the water, and...."

The sobs crashed over him like the waves of the storm. "Dad... and, and he-he shot... and killed... and there wasn't an-any food or water. He wanted me t-to survive, and...." A high-pitched keen was all that came from Oliver's throat, and Malcolm held him even tighter, trying to rock him. Most of the rest was garbled or drowned. "...seagulls... ate... and he-he... was... so heavy! He was so heavy!"

Malcolm's face was wet with his own silent tears. Guilt twisted slowly through him as he realized he had done all this to them, to Robert and his boy.

Oliver began hyperventilating, shaking, but he went on and on, most of it incoherent babble. Then Malcolm realized he had slipped into Mandarin. The short, choppy syllables tumbled out, falling over each other. Malcolm could barely pick out a word or phrase here and there. There were soldiers and... shadows? Cages, masks... A knife? A bird? Something about a ship.

Even without details, the broad strokes outlined the whole bleak picture of Oliver's exile on that island. Pain, hurt, suffering.

Malcolm cried. He cried for Oliver, for every horrible moment spent struggling to survive. He cried for what he'd done. He cried for the beautiful angel he'd once known, now twisted and broken and scarred.

Oliver's tension finally broke, his strength wrung out of him. He unclenched enough that Malcolm could pull him to his chest and rub his back. Oliver went on crying, sniffling and hiccuping like a child.

Malcolm placed a gentle kiss upon his head. "You're home, now," he murmured. "You're safe. You're home."

Eventually, Oliver fell into an exhausted sleep. Malcolm drew the covers up, and kept holding him while he rested, never letting go. _I'll never hurt you again,_ he vowed. He owed it to Oliver. He owed it to Robert. _I'm so sorry, old friend. I hope you realize how much. I'll take care of him for you. I'll help him heal and go on from here._

Of course, there was the question of whether or not Oliver actually wanted to stay here, to live with Malcolm. Malcolm didn't know what he would do.

 

 

 

Oliver twitched in his sleep. Malcolm looked down on his face, saw that it wasn't relaxed and serene with sleep any longer. His brow creased; his eyes flicked rapidly beneath his eyelids.

Malcolm raised a hand to his cheek to wake him from his dream. Oliver's eyes snapped open with a flash of blue, unseeing for a few brief moments. That was all the time it took for him to leap from a prone position to kneeling over Malcolm, one hand trapping the older man's wrist, the other around his throat. His lips peeled back in a feral snarl.

"Oliver!" Malcolm choked out, unable to believe the speed with which the young man had moved. He grappled to break Oliver's grip on his neck, but Oliver fought him. Squeezed until the edges of Malcolm's vision went grey. He stopped struggling. "You're home," he managed to get out. "Oliver, it's me! ... _gack_... Home!"

Reality, sanity, flashed back into those eyes. Oliver recoiled. "I'm sorry! Are you all right?"

Malcolm panted for breath. Oliver... Oliver could have killed him. He shuddered.

"Malcolm, I'm so sorry." Oliver reached hesitantly for his arm, his face filled with concern.

"I'm all right," he wheezed out. He took a few more shaky breaths. "I'm fine." He took Oliver's hand that was still hovering there, gave it a squeeze to show he wasn't hurt or placing blame on Oliver.

Oliver settled down on the bed, sitting on one hip. He looked pensive for a moment, then he said, "Things... Things happened on that island." He glanced up through his lashes. Malcolm nodded once. "I... I can't do things the way we used to. I know you don't like to bottom." There was a pause after this, waiting to be filled with the answer to the unasked question.

"No," Malcolm confirmed truthfully. "I don't."

Oliver nodded, accepting of this. Then he seemed somewhat at a loss. He still didn't look up at Malcolm. "I... I guess...."

Malcolm leaned up on one elbow, put his hand over Oliver's. "It was a long time coming, but I always knew it would." It was ironic, really. Oliver breaking up with him. He felt somewhat hollow, but he had accepted it long ago.

Oliver's voice was husky. "I'll always be grateful for everything you did for me. For being there for me. I... I couldn't have survived that island if it hadn't been for you, giving me what I needed." He paused to swallow. "I still love you for that, and part of me always will."

He drew away, then, and got up to fetch his clothes. Malcolm sat up on the edge of the bed. "If you need me, if you need to talk about anything, I'll be here for you. Call me, any time."

"I will," Oliver said quietly. Malcolm knew it was a lie. Oliver wanted a clean break. Again, the irony of it all struck a chord in Malcolm.

He got up when it was clear that Oliver was just going to turn and leave. "Oliver." He stopped him. He went to Oliver, enfolded him in his arms. He felt Oliver's arms slip around his back. "Stay safe," Malcolm told him, holding him tight, once last time, before letting him go.


	6. Love and Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm has to make a hard choice between two people he loves.

Then Oliver was arrested for murder, on suspicion of being the Vigilante. Malcolm winced at the news. He hadn't wanted to believe it. Oliver had come to him, clearly not knowing about his involvement with the sinking of the _Gambit_ , seemingly ignorant of the Undertaking. But if Robert hadn't told him anything, he had still discovered the List, even if he didn't know the significance of it.

Moira couldn't see her son as this masked marauder, this killer. But then, she probably hadn't seen her son naked. Malcolm knew Oliver was now capable of these physical feats. And he'd seen the killing instinct in Oliver's eyes.

The police had evidence; the DA's office was confident enough to proceed with the prosecution. If that happened, the secret binding the Undertaking would be unraveled. The whole thing could fall apart.

Malcolm couldn't let that happen.

"Sir?" The unobtrusive hitman in the corner asked. "Should I take care of this?"

Malcolm rested his forehead in one hand, thinking. Thinking about Oliver, remembering the young boy playing on the beach, his hair bleached white in the sun, his skin deeply bronzed. His best friend's son, his own son's best friend; the strong bond between their families cross-tied and strengthened through the two generations. He remembered the mischievous and charming brat running wild; he remembered the devilish angel in his bed.

He'd already inadvertently killed his beloved Oliver once. Could he order it done again?

He loved Oliver, he truly did, in so many ways. But his first love, his first loyalty, was to his wife Rebecca. What he shared with Oliver could never overshadow that, it could never destroy that. Malcolm would never allow it.

"Do it."

"Yes, sir."

Malcolm's hands shook as he reached for the decanter. This time, he really had done it. He'd murdered his angel.

_Forgive me._


	7. Breaking the Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another sin. Another mistake. How much guilt can one man bear? This twisted travesty unravels and burns in the fires of Hell.

When it had been proven Oliver was _not_ the Vigilante, Malcolm's spirit had been crushed. He'd been so sure! Thank God the police had shot the hitman he'd sent. If Oliver had been killed and then exonerated, Malcolm didn't know if he could have borne the guilt. How could he have been so wrong?

When Moira came storming in, he had half a mind to hand her a gun and let her finish him.

End the pain.

That was not to be, but Moira made it perfectly clear that it wasn't outside the realm of possibility, if he didn't leave her family alone.

He gave her his word.

He also made a private vow to himself, to never again lose his faith and trust in Oliver, to never again betray their love.

And he hadn't.

And _that_ had turned out to be the mistake. Malcolm was so shocked to unmask the Vigilante and find that it was indeed Oliver, he didn't know what to do. He _couldn't_ kill him. He was horrified that he almost had, just now. Again!

But still, he couldn't let Oliver stop the Undertaking. Not when he was so close to earning forgiveness from Rebecca.

 

 

 

"I hope I didn't hurt you too badly," he told Oliver, once the young man had regained consciousness. Oliver hung from his wrists from chains suspended far overhead. Malcolm didn't trust a chair and standard handcuffs and zip ties. Oliver was too strong. And he couldn't tie him down on a table or bed with ropes or leather cuffs. That just hit too close to home. Oddly, Oliver had never asked why Malcolm had such restraints or knew how to secure ropes around a body in so many configurations.

He shook his mind free from those memories.

Blood still ran freely down the side of Oliver's face, painting him red. He snarled in hatred. "You sabotaged the yacht! You killed my father! How many people are you going to kill on your mad crusade?" Gone was the soft golden angel, only the angry devil remained.

Malcolm held back his temper. "I'm sorry about the yacht, Oliver. I didn't want to have to kill your father. And I certainly never meant for you to get hurt."

"The only reason I was on that yacht was because of you!" His eyes burned with dark intensity. "I couldn't get closure with you. You rejected me, and I was a wreck! I didn't think I deserved love, so I tried to sabotage the only chance I ever had of someone accepting me, of loving me, by taking my girlfriend's sister on a trip, and waiting for it all to crash and burn around me. It was all your fault! And then you sentenced me to five years of hell on that island!"

"I am truly sorry, for everything," Malcolm said, his voice pleading for him to hear the truth. "I never meant to hurt you." Guiltily, the realization hit him: that was really the only outcome this sordid affair could ever have had. He shrugged it off, not without some effort. He could seek atonement for this once the Glades were rebuilt.

"Is that all you have to say? You're sorry? You're sorry you hurt me, but then you're going to go on and destroy half this city?"

"I'm not destroying Starling City, I'm saving it. Saving it from the disease that is strangling it from the inside."

"You're slaughtering innocent people."

"They are _not_ innocent!"

Oliver shook his head. "How can you be this way? How can you think like that? Christ, Malcolm, are you even capable of loving anyone?"

The accusation slapped him in the face. "I love Rebecca. Everything I've done, everything I'm doing, is to earn forgiveness for her death."

Oliver gaped at him, not understanding. "But you're not the one who shot her."

Malcolm looked away. He hadn't wanted to dredge this up again, to drag his soul over these coals. But it seemed to be part of his penance. And Oliver deserved to know. He paced in a circle around him, his head down, so he wouldn't have to see the scorn in Oliver's eyes.

"When Rebecca was shot... she tried to call me. She called me to come help her." He looked at the floor beneath his shoes, wet and grimy. It's what his soul felt like. "I didn't answer. I didn't want to; I was busy. I... I failed her. She called for me to help her, and I didn't." He returned to standing in front of Oliver, his head still down. "If only I hadn't been so selfish. It's my fault she's dead!"

His self accusation echoed in the cavernous room. Somewhere, drops of water pattered on the floor.

"And you think," Oliver said quietly, "that this Undertaking is going to earn you forgiveness?"

Malcolm raised his eyes. "I will eradicate the man who shot her, the people who passed her by, ignoring her cries, all those criminals responsible for destroying her life -- for the hundreds of lives they destroy every year! I will make this city safe. Safe for wives and mothers to come home without being murdered!"

Oliver stared, his jaw slack. Then his featured hardened again. "And you, you'll just keep on making that same mistake," he snarled.

"What?"

"You weren't there for Rebecca when she needed you. Then you abandoned Tommy. You weren't there for him when he needed you the most! He'd just lost his mother, and you went off pursuing your own agenda!"

Malcolm felt the gnawing of guilt twisting in his gut, turning his soul to wormwood, weakening it, rendering it to dust.

"And then me." Oliver pulled on the chains that held him. "When I needed you, you left me! You ignored me, you wouldn't take my calls. Jesus, Malcolm, you just keep making the same mistake over and over! When are you going to stop this madness?"

Anger boiled inside him. "I can't. I've made my decision, I've made my plans, and I am not going to back down this time! Not for you, not for Robert, not for anyone! _No one_ is going to stop me."

Oliver bared his teeth. "You are the one who is diseased inside. You are the criminal, and I will put you down. I will end you!"

The lava of Malcolm's anger cooled, leaving behind solid basalt. The last flicker of love his heart had for this boy died out. He was left utterly cold. "You can't," he said simply. "You don't have what it takes to stop me, because your convictions are weak. You'll always come up short, because you are not willing to go as far as I am. You may believe you are right, but I _know_ I am."

 

 

He should have killed Oliver then, but he was not heartless. In honor of his friendship with Robert, in honor of his love for Moira, he would spare their son. Even in honor of the tainted and twisted love he and Oliver had once shared.

Like most of his decisions concerning Oliver, that, too, had been a mistake. Moira betrayed him. That goddamned Queen family, they were all twisted and corrupt. Malcolm would destroy every last one of them, like crushing a viper underfoot. They were the inhuman ones; they were soulless.

As Malcolm choked the life out of Oliver, he felt nothing but vindicated triumph, and a hot thirst for even more revenge.

And then the shock as the arrow shaft tore through his heart. There was no way in hell, except for Oliver to have driven it straight through his own body. Malcolm's grip went slack, but he couldn't pull away. The barbed arrowhead caught on his shoulder blade and kept the two men pinned together.

Oliver didn't let go of the fletched end. He shoved back against Malcolm, who stumbled, still unable to catch his breath as his heart struggled to keep beating around the arrow passing through it.

His weight dragged on the shaft, and Oliver leaned forward, pulling at it. The barbs clawed backwards, ripping through his flesh as Malcolm fell free. Oliver let go at the last second, and the barbs hooked Malcolm's ribs. The fletched end of the arrow slipped through Oliver's body.

The young man stumbled forward, clutching at the bloody hole in his chest. Clumsily, still reeling in pain, he turned and came towards Malcolm.

Malcolm struggled to stand, but he was losing blood fast. Oliver planted a boot on his chest. "I said I would end you," he growled. He gripped the arrow and tore it out. Heartsblood fountained from the wound.

Malcolm gagged on the pain, but he bared his teeth, even as his life poured out. "You've won nothing."

Oliver staggered as the building began to sway. Malcolm's vision was fading quickly, but he saw Oliver's head turn towards the Glades, saw the light catch his expression of dismay. The feeling of vindictive triumph returned. He was dying, but that didn't matter. He'd finally, finally succeeded.

_Rebecca._ His thoughts turned to love as the pain faded away. _Rebecca, I--_

And the rest was silence.


End file.
